The air inside The Barbed Wire didn't just smell; it assaulted the senses. It was thick, heady cocktail of stale lager, 10w-40 motor oil, unwashed denim, and enough testosterone to grow a beard on a billiard ball. To most people, it was the scent of imminent physical danger. But to Vida, it smelled like a Tuesday.
She leaned against the chipped mahogany bar, polishing a glass with a rag that was arguably dirtier than the glass itself, watching her "boys".
From the outside, the regulars of The Barbed Wire were the stuff of nightmares. They were mountains of leather and road dust, covered in patches that promised violence, with beards that could—and possibly did—house small ecosystems. They were the kind of men who made pedestrians cross the street and convenience store clerks lock the doors.
But Vida knew the truth. They were basically 300-pound teddy bears with anger management issues, abandonment trauma, and a surprisingly soft center.
At the far end of the bar, the lighting was dim, casting long shadows over MD (short for Mad Dog) and his son, Mad Dog (because tradition is important in biker culture). The two massive men were currently huddled over a pile of pastel blue yarn, their brows furrowed in intense concentration.
"I'm telling you, boy, it's a purl stitch!" MD grumbled, his voice like gravel in a blender. He was trying to maneuver knitting needles that looked like toothpicks in his massive, scarred hands. "If you drop a stitch here, the whole scarf unravels and Nana is gonna be cold! Do you want Nana to have a drafty neck?
"It's a slip knot, Pop!" Mad Dog argued back, adjusting his leather vest which featured a skull engulfed in flames on the back. "Nana said you gotta slip the first one to keep the edge straight. Do you want her to have a jagged edge? Do you want to embarrass the family in front of the nursing staff?"
Suddenly, Big Tiny—a man who was six-foot-seven, wide as a refrigerator, and had 'HATE' tattooed on his knuckles—slammed his hand on the counter between them. "You're both wrong!" Big Tiny rumbled. He reached out and picked up the yarn with the delicacy of a bomb disposal technician. "Look at the tension. It's too tight. You're strangling the wool. It's supposed to drape, not stop a bullet."
The argument escalated. Voices were raised. Needles were pointed aggressively.
Vida sighed. She moved down the bar, grabbed a plastic spray bottle usually reserved for cleaning, and misted them like misbehaving cats.
Psst. Psst.
"Hey!" MD yelped, shielding his yarn with his body. "Watch the wool!"
"Quiet down," Vida warned, leaning over the bar with her signature 'Bar Momma' glare—a look that had stopped bar fights in three different centuries. "Or I am taking the alpaca blend away. And I will lock it in the safe until you guys learn to play nice."
"He started it." Mad Dog mumbled, looking down at his steel toed boots.
"I don't care who started it," Vida said, softening her voice just a fraction as she wiped the bar top. "Though it is sweet that you're doing this. How is your mother doing,MD?"
MD sighed, his terrifying face softening into something resembling a sad bulldog. "She's okay, Momma. But she gets lonely in the home. Nobody visits the old folks anymore. Me and the boys… we figured if we learned how to knit, we could sit with them on Sundays. Start a club. We're gonna call it The Iron Grannies. Give'em someone to talk to besides yelling at jeopardy."
Vida felt a pang in her chest that had nothing to do with her heart condition. "That is the sweetest thing I've ever heard," she said. "But if you shout at your son about purl stitches again, you're cut-off. Understood?"
"Yes, Momma."
Vida smirked, taking a long sip from her thermos. To the patrons, it was her special recipe "Bloody Mary" In reality, it was synthetic O-positive, thick and metallic, keeping her upright.
Her eyes drifted, as they had every night for the past week, to the back corner booth.
He was there again. The handsome stranger. He didn't fit the demographic. He didn't have the cuts, the grime, or the beer belly. He had dark hair, broad shoulders that filled out a fitted t-shirt, and cargo pants. He sat alone, nursing a single beer for hours, just…watching.
Specifically, watching her.
Vida felt his gaze like a physical weight. In her younger years (say, the late 1800's in New Orleans), she might have sauntered over there and charmed the life out of him just for sport. But she was tired. She was 342 years old. And frankly, as long as he wasn't starting fights or breaking glass, she didn't care who he stared at.
"Who's he hurting?" she muttered to herself, turning her back to the booth to check the inventory of Jack Daniels.
Suddenly, a shout erupted from the pool table area, shattering the peace.
"Dude, you moved the cue ball! That is a major violation of the vibe!"
Vida groaned, letting her head thump against the cash register. She didn't even have to look up. It was Cheesy. Cheesy was a newer addition to the gang, a 'weekend warrior' biker for the social media age. He wore designer leather that had never seen a bug splatter, his beard was oiled with something that smelled like sandalwood and ego, and he was currently live-streaming his game on Instagram to show his followers that "Bikers are Gentle Giants."
Unfortunately, he was playing against Chewie.
Chewie was old school. He had been riding since the 70's. He had more hair on his back than on his head, he was missing three teeth from a fight in 1982, and he was currently about twelve beers deep into a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon.
"I didn't move the ball, you glitter-covered coat rack!" Chewie roared, snapping his pool cue in half over his knee like it was a dry twig. "You bumped the table trying to find your 'good angle'!"
"It's called lighting, Chewie!" Cheesy held up his phone, panning it around the room. "Say hi to the fans!"
"I WILL EAT THAT PHONE IF YOU DON'T GET IT OUT OF MY FACE!" Chewie lunged.
The bar went silent. MD dropped his knitting. Big Tiny stood up so fast his stool fell over.
Vida moved.
She didn't run. She glided. She rounded the bar, her black boots clicking rhythmically on the hardwood floor. She walked right between the 250 pound influencer and the enraged wookie-man without flinching.
"Boys," Vida said. Her voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the room like a razor blade slicing silk.
Chewie was vibrating with rage, his fists clenched like hams. "He's disrespecting the game, Momma! He's taking pictures of the balls instead of hitting them!"
"And you," Vida said, turning her gaze to Chewie, "are about to turn this nice young man into hamburger meat. And you know how I feel about cleaning blood out of the felt. It stains, Chewie. And vinegar doesn't get it out."
"But—"
"No buts."
Vida grabbed Chewie by his leather vest. She dragged him away from the pool table, toward the ancient jukebox in the corner.
It was a temperamental machine that usually ate quarters and played nothing, or worse, played the Polka. But Vida knew its soul.
She spun around and bumped the side of the machine with her hip—a perfect, practiced move she'd learned from a greaser she dated in 1955.
THUMP.
The machine whirred. The lights flickered. And then, the smooth, soulful voice of Etta James began to croon At Last.
"Dance with me, Chewie," Vida commanded, holding out a hand.
"Aw, Momma, come on," Chewie whined, his face turning beet red under the grime. "I wanna fight. I got the adrenaline going."
"You're dancing," Vida said firmly. She took his calloused, grease-stained hand and placed it on her waist. "If you fight him, you go to jail. If you dance with me, you get a free beer and I don't ban you from here for a month."
Chewie grumbled, looked at Cheesy (who was now taking a selfie with the 8-ball), and sighed. "Fine. But I'm leading."
For the next three minutes, the terrifying bar brawl turned into a slow dance. Vida rested her head on Chewie's leather-clad shoulder, keeping him calm, while the rest of the bar went back to their drinks—and their knitting. From the corner of her eye. Vida glanced at the back booth. The handsome stranger was watching,a small, amused smile playing on his lips.
By 2:am, the ugly fluorescent lights were flickering on. "Last call!" Vida shouted, slamming a rag on the bar. "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here. Mostly because I hate you all and I want to go home and go to sleep."
"Love you too, Momma!"Mad Dog shouted, carefully packing away his pastel blue yarn into a saddlebag.
Vida wiped down the bar, counting her tips. It had been a lucrative night. The "girls"---her leather-corseted assets— had done their job, and the regulars, despite their roughness, were generous tippers.
She looked toward the corner booth.
It was empty.
The handsome stranger had vanished, leaving a neat stack of cash on the table—enough to cover his beer and a massive tip.
"Weirdo," she whispered, sweeping the cash into her purse.
Big Tiny was already waiting by the heavy steel back door.
"Cars out back, Momma,"Big Tiny rumbled, peering into the alley. "I checked the perimeter. No raccoons tonight but I did scare off a stray cat."
"I can handle myself, Tiny." Vida said, patting his massive arm. "I've been handling myself since before your grandfather learned to walk."
"I know," Big Tiny said, opening the door for her. "Knuckles says you got enough meanness in you to make King Kong run in fright with just one side-eye. But …it's a rough neighborhood."
Vida chuckled. "Knuckles talks too much."
She stepped out into the cool night air. The parking lot was quiet except for the hum of highway 52.
"Get home safe, Tiny," she said walking to her trusty rusty Buick.
She slid into the driver's seat. The leather was cracked and smelled of old dust and history. She put the key in the ignition.
Crank, nothing.
"Come on, you piece of junk," she whispered, stroking the dashboard. "Don't do this to me. I'm tired."
Crank, nothing.
She slammed her hand on the dashboard. "I will sell you for scrap! I will turn you into a toaster."
Crank...Vroooom.
The engine roared to life, coughing a cloud of black smoke. Vida patted the dashboard. "Good girl."
The drive home took twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of dark, winding roads where she could finally drop the "Bar Momma" persona and just be tired.
When she finally pulled into Dead End Row, the park was silent. She parked into her spot in front of her trailer. She dragged her on self the creaky metal steps, and let herself into the pitch black single wide.
She didn't turn on a light, that was a good thing about being a vampire, she could see in the dark. She dumped her purse on the floor. She dumped the wad of cash tips on top of it. She peeled off her leather bustier and pants, leaving them in a pile where they fell.
Shivering in the cool air, she rummaged around in the dark until she found an old t-shirt on the floor. She sniffed it. It smelled like it needed a wash, but it didn't smell like biker sweat.
"Good enough,"she muttered, pulling it on.
She shuffled to the refrigerator, the light blinding her for a second as she grabbed a bag of synthetic O-Positive. She drank it straight from the bag, grimacing at the metallic, syrupy taste. It was gross, but she needed it to fight off the impending hangover that the synthetic blood itself would eventually cause. It was a vicious cycle of immortality.
She collapsed onto the couch. She didn't bother with the bedroom. She was asleep before her head hit the cushion.
Vida woke up at noon. A single, treacherous beam of sunlight had managed to find a pinhole in her duct taped curtains. It hit the silver buckle of the leather bustier she had thrown on the floor the night before, and ricocheted upward, hitting Vida squarely in the face.
"HISS"
She rolled off the couch in a panic, covering her eyes as if she had flash-banged. The reflection wasn't fatal, but it was annoying, blinding, and extremely rude.
"Ugh," she groaned, sitting up on the floor.
Her head throbbed in her so the "bag of nickels" feeling in her stomach had arrived right on schedule.
She stood up, carefully avoiding the death-beam from the buckle, and looked around the disaster zone of her living room. Clothes were everywhere.
"I need to get dressed," she whispered. "I need….layers. Protective layers."
She picked up a black skirt from the floor. She held it up to the sliver of light. White cat hair, where did that come from?
"Trash."
She picked up her favorite velvet cape. She sniffed it. It smelled like Dale's burning tires three weeks ago.
"Nope."
She picked up a hoodie. She sniffed the armpit. She recoiled violently.
"Oh, sweet Dracula, that's rank."
She stood amidst the pile of discarded black fabrics, realizing with a sinking feeling that she had reached the event
Horizon. She was out of clean clothes. All of them. Even the emergency. "I'm only going to the mailbox." Sweatpants were questionable.
"I have to go…to the facility."
She grabbed a plastic laundry basket and began her transformation for the outside world.
First, the rubber ducky robe (her armor against the world).
Second, the oversized sunglasses. And finally, she reached to the top shelf and pulled down The Hat. It was a straw sun hat with a brim so wide it was technically a zoning violation. It created a personal eclipse for anything within a three-foot radius.
"You are an apex predator," she told her shadowy reflection in the mirror. "You are a creature of the night. You can handle a washing machine."
She grabbed the basket, kicked open her front door, and stepped into the enemy territory known as "DAytime."
Vida hated laundry day almost as much as she hated sunshine, garlic, silver, wooden pointy things, and people who are cheerful before noon. The laundry basket dug into her hip as she trudged across the heat-warped asphalt toward what the park management generously called "The Laundry Facility."
It was a glorified shed made of corrugated tin and despair. Inside, it housed two ancient washing machines that sounded like they were trying to achieve low-earth orbit during the spin cycle.
She was just yanking open the warped door—which stuck at the bottom, requiring a specific hip-check maneuver to open—when she heard it.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The distinctive, soul-crushing sound of a large truck backing up.
Vida froze. She turned slowly, squinting beneath the massive brim of her hat, and spotted a truck backing a shiny new air stream, into the lot between her and Chen.
In the empty lot behind her rust bucket and Chen's place.
"Well, shit." she muttered. "I don't want a new neighbor."
She turned back to the washing machine with renewed urgency, shoving clothes into the drum without any regards to colors. She jammed the quarters slot, twisted the dial, and spun toward the door to make her escape. And nearly collided with a chest.
He was tall, with dark hair, a strong jawline that looked like it could crack a walnut, and the kind of easy, white-toothed smile that probably worked on people who weren't eternally hungover vampires.
And he was the guy that had been in her bar every night for the last week.
He wore cargo pants with enough pockets to smuggle a small country, a fitted t-shirt, and had the audacity to look friendly in 90 degree heat.
"Hi," he said, blocking the doorway with his annoying pleasantness. "My name is Marcus."
Vida tried to sidestep him to the left. He moved left, too.
"That's great," she rasped, clutching her empty basket like a shield. "But I don't remember asking."
She tried right. He shifted right, still smiling.
"Just trying to meet the new neighbors," Marcus said.
That's when Vida noticed it. The logo on his shirt.
It was subtle, embroidered over the left breast pocket. A stylized crossbow resting over a wooden stake. Beneath it, in stitched gothic font, were words she couldn't quite make out through her sunglasses, but she could definitely guess: Hunter, Slayer, or Pest Control.
Her sluggish, synthetic-blood-fueled heart did a little skip.
"Well, you met me,"Vida said flatly. "Now get out of my way."
She pushed past him, her shoulder bumping his–he was solid as a rock–and practically bolted out of the laundry shed into the blinding sunlight, clutching her hat to her head.
Behind her, she heard Marcus calling. "Hey, wait! I didn't catch your name."
"That's because I didn't throw it!"Vida shot back over her shoulder.
Twenty minutes later, Vida had called an emergency tenant meeting. The Henderson's double wide was cramped with bodies. Everyone was there except Marcus. Vida stood in the center of the room, still wearing her sunglasses and giant hat indoors. Ricky sat on the arm of the couch.
"Okay, so what's the big deal?"Ricky asked.
"Do I really need to spell this out for you people?" They all stared at her like yes, please. "He is a V-A-M-P-I-R-E-H-U-N-T-E-R!" They were still staring blankly. "What am I?" she took her hands and waved at her body. "V-A-M-P-I-R-E!"
Silence fell over the room.
"Okay,"Mr. Henderson rumbled. "So, what do we do?"
Dale, leaning against the wall with his white BEER can, spoke up. "We could always kill him."
"We're NOT killing him!" Vida shouted. "I'll just…I'll just have to avoid him. That's all." she stated. "I'll become a recluse. More of a recluse."
"We'll just have to run interference for her." Ricky decided. "Protect the asset."
Dale snickered into his beer. "So, we're cockblocking a vampire hunter from getting too close to the vampire. I still say we could kill him. Lawn dart incident."
"DALE!"
Marcus couldn't explain it, but he was drawn to Vida. So, being a man of action, he started sending her gifts. The first delivery attempt was flowers. Marcus made it exactly three steps toward Vida's trailer before Ricky appeared out of nowhere.
"She's not home."Ricky said, blocking the path, arms crossed.
"Oh, well her car's here."
"Uh, she's allergic,"Ricky improvised. "To flowers. All flowers. Deathly allergic. Even looking at a petal makes her throat close up. I'll just dispose of these."Ricky snatched the flowers and trotted off.
The second attempt was chocolates. This time, Chen intercepted him, moving with a staggering gait.
"Vida doesn't like chocolates,"Chen droned, his dead eyes staring unblinkingly, "She's got an intolerance. Gives her the runs. Stays in the bathroom for days. And she's allergic to cocoa. I'll make sure she doesn't die."Chen took the box and shuffled away, popping a truffle into his gray mouth.
The third attempt—-a lovely basket of wine and imported cheeses—got the furthest. Marcus made it to the front deck before Dale appeared, seemingly materializing out of thin air.
"I'll give it to her,"DAle said. "Me and Vida, we're really close. I'm basically her spiritual advisor."
Marcus reluctantly handed over the basket. As he walked away, he could have sworn he heard laughter from inside her trailer.
Marcus thought "okay then maybe I should start taking her stuff at work" Then he thought of Big Tiny or Knuckles turning into a pretzel, so that was a definite NOPE.
He continued to have things delivered to her, Balloons, candy. Everything sat on her deck.
When Vida had gone a week without a delivery, she thought she could get out and at least get some synthetic o-positive. She was running pretty low.
She dressed in her daytime armor. The robe, the hat, and the giant shades. She pushed open her door, planning a run to the blood bank. She stopped short.
Her front deck looked like the aftermath or a sad Valentine's Day. Wilted flowers, half-eaten chocolates(courtesy of the squirrels), and deflated balloons lay everywhere.
And in the middle of it all sat Marcus.
"Good morning,"he said, brightening.
"What is this?" Vida asked, gesturing toward all the trash.
"Your neighbors are very protective. I think the old guy with the beer ate the cheese." He held up a coffee cup. "I brought you a coffee. Not too bad for gas station coffee."
Despite her instincts, Vida took the cup of coffee. She sighed. "Tell me, Marcus. What is going to take to get you to leave me the hell alone?"
"Go on a date with me."
"Absolutely not!" she grimaced at his suggestion.
"Then I'll be sitting right here everyday."
Vida looked at the mess on her porch. "Fine. One date. But I choose the place where we go, and you're paying."
"Deal."
"And for God's sake,"she called as he walked away. "Get rid of those cargo pants. How many pockets does one man need?"
"They're tactical!"
That evening, Vida dressed in a deep purple dress, trying to look nice despite her better judgement. Marcus knocked at 7:00 PM. "Wow," he said. "You look…..amazing."
Vida rolled her eyes and waved her hand. "Let's get this over with."
She started to climb into Marcus's truck. She opened the door and froze.
The smell hit her like a physical blow. Garlic. Potent, fresh, eye-watering garlic.
She looked up at the rearview mirror. Hanging there, right where fuzzy dice should be, was a braided string of fresh garlic bulbs, swinging innocently in the breeze.
"So, this is how I will go out after 342 years. After all the men that had fallen for my dazzling smile, I died for that dazzling smile." she thought to herself.
Marcus followed her gaze. His eyes went wide with panic. "Oh, crap!"
He reached across the console, snatched the garlic string down with lightning speed, and shoved it violently into the glove compartment, slamming the latch shut.
He turned back to her, sweating. "That…uh…"
Vida cocked one eye up. "Air freshener?" she asked.
"Lunch!" Marcus blurted out. "It was lunch. I had fresh garlic bread. I like to crush my own. And it was like..a whole loaf. And I just kept the rest for later? Hanging up? In my truck? To…dry? You know, jerky style?"
Vida stared at him. "You hang your garlic for your garlic bread that you make in your kitchen, hanging in from your rear view mirror?"
"It keeps the…..misquitos away?"
'And the vampires.' Vida thought to herself. "We are taking my car,"she said as she turned toward her car. "I do not want my outfit to smell like, yuck."
"Ok, I'm sorry Vida."
She shrugged and got in the driver's seat. "Get in hunter man. Let's get this disaster over with."
They took her ancient Buick to Bella Nolte, the most expensive Italian place in town. They were seated at a nice table. Vida opened her menu, relaxing slightly.
"Good evening, dudes," said the waiter.
It was Brandon. Wearing a clip-on tie.
"You're the vampire lady from the trailer park," Brandon said, pointing a finger at Vida.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Vida said quickly, burying her face in the menu.
"Dude, sure you do. You know, the de…"
Vida's hand shot out and 'accidently' knocked over her water glass. Ice water cascaded across the table, soaking Brandon's notepad.
"Whoa," Brandon said. "Wet."
He tried to clean it up with a napkin, only making it worse. Then, he remembered his other hand was holding the complimentary bread basket.
"Here you go," Brandon said.
He took a step, tripped over his own untied shoelace, and the basket went flying. Bread rolls scattered across the fancy tiled floor like marbles.
"Whoa," Brandon whispered, staring at the carnage. "Gravity spike."
He looked at Vida then Marcus. "So, do you guys want new rolls, or do you want the floor rolls? I mean, the five-second rule is just a construct, man. The floor is just a really big plate."
"New rolls, please," Marcus said firmly.
"Awesome," Brandon beamed. He bent down and started scooping up the dusty rolls. "Hey, can I have these? I get the munchies sometimes, and I don't have a clue why. Just this cosmic hunger, you know?"
"Take them," Vida said, massaging her temples.
"Sweet." Brandon started stuffing the dusty bread rolls directly into his vest pocket. "Score. Pocket bread." He took a bite of a roll before sticking it into his pocket. "May I take your order?"
Vida and Marcus both ordered steak. Vida's rare, very rare. Marcus is done but not shoe leather. Brandon tried to write on his soaked note pad.
When that didn't work, he said, "Ok, go ahead. I have a photography memory."
They ordered their steaks again and a fancy bottle of wine. He shuffled away to get their order, leaving a trail of bread crumbs behind him.
Fifteen minutes later, Brandon returned with the food. He sat the wine on the table then set their dinners in front of them. He sat Vida's down in front of her and all she could do was stare. "Is this mine?"
Brandon sat Marcus's plate in front of him. "Enjoy!" Brandon started back to the kitchen.
Marcus watched Vida poke at the gray, leather, cooked beyond well-done. "Is it….edible?" Marcus asked.
Vida tried to cut it. The knife bounced off.
"Brandon!" Marcus flagged him down. "This is overcooked. Almost cremated."
"Oh, dude. No worries. I'll have it fixed for you."
Brandon turned and went to the kitchen. When he returned with the perfect rare steak, instead of leaving, he pulled up a chair and sat down next to Vida.
"So, can I have the other one?" he asked, holding the plate with the piece of leather on it.
"What?"
"The jerky steak. I love jerky, man. Seems like a waste to throw it away."
"Just take it." Vida waved him off
"Thanks, vampire lady!" Brandon took a bite of the gray piece of meat, tearing at it like a wolf. "Chewy."
The rest of the night was a blur of disasters. Brandon dropped a butter dish (staining Marcus's pants), drank Marcus's water, and then when the check came, he had charged Marcus's card twice because "the computer has ghosts."
When they finally escaped to the parking lot, Vida leaned against her Buick and started laughing. She couldn't help it.
"That was," she gasped, "the worst date I have ever been on. And I have been on some doozies."
"Top five worst experiences of my life, " Margus agreed, wiping butter off his knee. "But….I had a good time."
He walked her to her door back at the trailer park.
"So," Marcus said, standing at the bottom of her steps.
"When can I get a second date?"
"Never," Vida said.
From the darkness of the surrounding trailers, she heard whispers.
"Awe,poor guy." came Olga Henderson's voice.
"We could still kill him," came Dale's voice.
Marcus grinned and gave her a salute. "Goodnight, Vida."
"Goodnight."
She watched him walk away. Then she spun around to the dark windows of her neighbors.
"YOU MEAN POOR VAMPIRE HUNTER!" she yelled. She flipped off the entire park with both hands, slammed her door, and went straight for the synthetic blood.
Just another night at DEAD END ROW